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And if the computer gives you any back talk, pour some well-sugared office coffee into its evil little silicon brain.

Edward Abbey

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Edward Abbey
Age: 62 †
Born: 1927
Born: January 29
Died: 1989
Died: March 14
Author
Environmentalist
Essayist
Novelist
Philosopher
Screenwriter
Writer
Edward Paul Abbey
Evil
Silicon
Littles
Pour
Back
Coffee
Little
Computer
Wells
Office
Well
Gives
Giving
Brain
Talk
Sugared

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Great art is never perfect perfect art is never great.
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Walking takes longer... than any other known form of locomotion except crawling. Thus it stretches time and prolongs life. Life is already too short to waste on speed.
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The artist's job? To be a miracle worker: make the blind see, the dull feel, the dead to live.
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J. Edgar Hoover, J. Bracken Lee, J. Parnell Thomas, J. Paul Getty -- you can always tell a shithead by that initial initial.
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Only the half-mad are wholly alive.
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The true, unacknowledged purpose of capital punishment is to inspire fear and awe -- fear and awe of the State.
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We are slaves in the sense that we depend for our daily survival upon an expand-or-expire agro-industrial empire—a crackpot machine—that the specialists cannot comprehend and the managers cannot manage. Which is, furthermore, devouring world resources at an exponential rate. We are, most of us, dependent employees. …Edward Abbey (1927-1989)
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What our economists call a depressed area almost always turns out to be a cleaner, freer, more livable place than most.
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The artist in our time has two chief responsibilities: (1) art and (2) sedition.
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I wish to be an inspector of volcanoes. I want to study cloud formations and memorize the wind and learn by heart the habits of the ponderosa pine.
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Be loyal to what you love, be true to the earth, fight your enemies with passion and laughter.
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Fence straddlers have no balls. In compensation, however, they enjoy a comfortable seat and can retreat swiftly, when danger threatens, to either side of the fence. There is something to be said for every position.
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Vladimir Nabokov was a writer who cared nothing for music and whose favorite sport was the pursuit, capture, and murder of butterflies. This explains many things for example, the fact that Nabokov's novels, for all their elegance and wit, resemble nothing so much as butterflies pinned to a board: pretty but dead symmetrical but stiff.
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What is reason? Knowledge informed by sympathy, intelligence in the arms of love.
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I would not sacrifice a single living mesquite tree for any book ever written. One square mile of living desert is worth a hundred 'great books' - and one brave deed is worth a thousand.
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A society that feels itself too poor to afford the preservation of wilderness is not worthy of the name civilization.
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When I hear the word 'culture', I reach for my checkbook.
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Belief? What do I believe in? I believe in sun. In rock. In the dogma of the sun and the doctrine of the rock. I believe in blood, fire, woman, rivers, eagles, storm, drums, flutes, banjos, and broom-tailed horses.
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There are some places so beautiful they can make a grown man break down and weep.
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The best thing about graduating from the university was that I finally had time to sit on a log and read a good book.
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